


Hair of the Dog

by nokkakona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokkakona/pseuds/nokkakona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Listen

_\- silent -_

_It's dark and they're alone. The moon had long ago disappeared, loathe to be witness to the exchange that took place beneath it, and part of the deal is no electricity. However, they are not entirely without vision. Dry lightning flickers energetically in the distance, but the thunder that accompanies it is solemn._

_It's dark and it's still and even though they stand so close, they're still alone. Words are spoken, but no conversation takes place. It's an informal but impersonal exchange, rehearsed so many times that it has become second nature. And yet, as it ends, both leave rich, but not with money. The deal has been sealed for the hundredth time, its only witness the stars._


	2. A Shoplifter

\- has to pilfer -

Okay, so bringing Castiel into the pet store probably hadn't been the best idea in the world. But really, it wasn't as if Dean had any other choice. Sam was off doing God knows what God knows where, and after everything with Balthazar, Dean needed to find  _something_  to make the angel stop moping around every time they called on him. He knew things weren't exactly prospering in heaven, but as long as Cas kept up this wounded general routine, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to help.

"I don't know, Cas. We- we humans just  _like_  having pets. They're like- substitute friends," Dean said with exasperation. The former angel stared back at him blankly.

"But why do they cage the animals? They are God's creatures and they are meant to be cared for, not…" A small child across the room pressed her face to the glass of a fish tank and tapped loudly, giggling when the fish fled the vibrations. "Ogled," Cas finished morosely.

Dean pulled a face. "I give up. I'm going to go look for the whatever it is Sam told me to look for, and you can just…" He glanced at Cas, who was staring petulantly at the small child. "Just don't get in any trouble," he finished shortly, abandoning him next to the ferrets.

Somehow he knew he shouldn't be leaving a vigilante of heaven alone in a store filled with shiny glass cages and bird food, but there was nothing he could do. Sam said he needed fresh worms for some freaky hoodoo magic crap he was whipping up, and seeing as Sam was nowhere to be found, it fell to Dean to collect them. He wasn't sure why a pet store would be selling worms, but he didn't really care. He just wanted to get this over with. Pet stores gave him the creeps, anyway.

Eventually he came across the fish section, and then the refrigerator where all the live bait was kept. Before anyone could witness him, he plucked a couple containers from inside, quickly shutting it and walking away. He swore he had seen a busty brunette by the dog food section, and he wanted to make good on that smirk she had given him.

Unfortunately, he never made it past the cat beds. As he turned the corner, he came face to face with an unpleasantly familiar morose smirk.

"Hello, Dean. Miss me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (okay so the anagram doesn't fully fit but i'm too lazy to find a better once since i'm just transferring this over from fanfiction.net so deAL OK sorry i love u sorry)


	3. Conversation

\- voices rant on -

" _Crowley?_ "

Standing in front of him, toting a glass of some alcohol or another, was none other than the King of the Hell, looking characteristically smug. "In the flesh."

Dean's lip curled, and he fingered his gun in its holster. "Great, just what I needed. Forgive me if I don't jump for joy."

Crowley offered him a dry smile. "I see you still have your brilliant sense of humour."

"What are you doing here, Crowley?" Dean demanded brusquely, mentally mapping the security cameras scattered throughout the store. Briefly, he took note of Cas, who was tapping a glass hamster cage experimentally and had apparently not noticed the King of Hell harassing Dean.

"Oh, not happy to see me?"

Dean pulled a face. "Is there any particular reason why I  _should_  be?" he growled. "The last time I saw you, you tried to rob Bobby of his soul."

"Yes, and you humiliated me in return. I assure you, I am as unhappy to see you as you are to see me." The demon quirked an eyebrow, and Dean fell silent. "Here's the thing, Winchester. I've run into a problem that's a little, shall we say, out of my range of ability."

"Well that narrows it down," Dean scoffed, but Crowley ignored him.

"You see, I'm... losing things. Things that are very valuable to me."

"So what? No offense, but we are  _so_ not friends," Dean stated contemptuously.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Oh, no offense taken," he said, looking Dean up and down judgmentally. "Really."

Dean crossed his arms and frowned. "Well, I think that all that Scotch and hellfire must be doing something to your brain, because we have no reason to help you."

Crowley chuckled and strolled lazily down the aisle. "Don't be silly, Dean. I don't expect you to assist me out of the goodness of your heart." The demon cast a characteristically smug look at Cas, who was currently inspecting a hamster cage and watching curiously as its inhabitants swung themselves around in a plastic wheel. "Rather I believe that you will find it in your best interest to offer your... services, once you hear my problem."

"What, your little sulfur-sucking demon smoke clouds can't deal with it?" Dean mocked. "In case you haven't noticed, we've got bigger problems." The finality in his voice was clear. "So if you don't mind…" He turned away, but was only able to take a single step before he felt a firm hand clasp his shoulder.

"Actually, I do mind," Crowley barked, and the sudden seriousness that permeated his voice startled Dean into silence. Crowley gazed gravely at him for a few moments before removing his hand. "Think about it, Dean." The brief flash of severity disappeared from his face, replaced by a cynical smirk once more. "Just how desperate do I have to be to be coming to the Winchesters for assistance?"

Underhanded cracks aside, Dean had to admit that Crowley had a point. Even as the words left the demon's mouth, there was a forced quality to his glibness. He regarded Crowley cautiously. "Alright," he permitted. "I'll listen."


	4. Chapter 4

 

\- hire a navy! -

'Listening' turned out to be more of an ordeal than expected. Castiel wasn't at all happy to see Crowley, which wasn't much of a stretch, but this time something felt different. It was like the dynamic of their relationship had somehow shifted. Dean couldn't exactly pinpoint it, so he put it off as just another side effect of this new stolid personality Castiel had adopted since the civil war broke out in heaven.

However, despite Castiel's advice about how Dean should not trust Crowley (did it  _seem_  like Dean was stupid enough to trust him, or…), the angel didn't stick around. Apparently, duty called, so it was only Dean who ended up alone in the Impala with a snippy demon who had no respect for premium leather or classic cars. Having him in the Impala seemed  _wrong_ , but Crowley had insisted they talk somewhere safe, and Dean knew of no safer place than the Impala. Not even heaven had proven as safe as that damned car.

Crowley didn't seem to agree with his sentiment. "You call this safe?" he groused. "How can you stand traversing the country in this wretched old thing?"

"Hey," Dean objected. "Don't talk about my baby like that."

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. "Well at least we know where your true loyalty lies," he remarked , and Dean didn't have the words to respond, so instead he fumed silently in the driver's seat. "Let's get this over with, then." Dean gave him a small nod, but maintained his scowl.

Casting a distasteful look around the car, Crowley began: "I said I was losing things. Getting them back, however, isn't the issue. I need to find out exactly where and why they're slipping away... and whether or not there's a 'who' behind it."

Well-well then. It  _was_  an issue relevant to Dean's interests. Then again, any issue where Crowley was being humiliated was relevant to Dean's interests.

"Okay, so what exactly are you 'losing'?" he asked, making quotes around the last word.

It was a perfectly sound question in his opinion, but Crowley still rolled his eyes. "Souls, Dean. I'm losing souls."

"... what?" His mind jumped immediately to the angel who had just left them. "You mean someone's taking souls? Have you  _tried_ asking heaven?"

"No, you don't understand," Crowley sighed impatiently. "They're not being taken. They're being… released."

'Released' was an interesting word. "Wouldn't that mean it's someone on your end?" Dean suggested somewhat condescendingly.

"Yes, and no," Crowley drawled, as if both annoyed and amused at Dean's assumption. "You see, there's a common factor within all the souls I've lost- I haven't  _technically_ gained them yet."

It took Dean a moment to realize the meaning behind Crowley's words. "So people are finding a way to get out of crossroads deals," he stated, narrowing his eyes. "I thought you held all the deals, and you were the only one who could, y'know, de-hell them."

Crowley raised his glass in a sarcastic testament to Dean's observation. "You see my predicament, then."

Dean was now starting to think that this actually might be his kind of thing. After all, the last person to have broken a deal was Bobby and the Winchesters, and they were sort of a special exception. It certainly was puzzling, but Dean was still unclear on why he should care. After all, broken deals were kind of his thing. If someone was out there imitating him, he should be supporting them- not helping Crowley reel them in. It seemed as if he had nothing to gain.

Just as he was about to voice his thoughts, however, he was rudely interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Crowley threw him a disparaging look, but Dean ignored him, grabbing the phone from his pocket and checking the caller I.D. It was Sam. 

"Sam? Where are you?" Dean asked roughly into the phone.

" _Dean, why is Crowley in the Impala?"_

Dean scowled. "He's- he's- look, I don't have time to explain. Where are you?" he repeated, miffed that Sam hadn't answered him the first time.

" _In the pet store, by the window._ "

Crowley, who had apparently been listening in on the conversation, followed the directions and gave Sam a little wave with his glass. "Shall I bring him over here?" he offered casually.

"No!" Dean snapped. "No, just- let him walk," he added, adjusting his tone. Returning his attention to Sam, he spoke into the phone. "Did you get that?"

" _Uh-huh. I'm on my way over."_  There was a pause.  _"Should I bring the salt?"_

Crowley clicked his tongue distastefully. "No, that's okay," Dean sighed. "Just get over here." He flipped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

"Rude little cretin," Crowley grumbled. Dean shot him a long look. "What?"

It took Sam less than a minute to jog over to the Impala and climb into the back seat, one hand on his jacket and the other in his pocket. Dean knew that he had Ruby's knife, and hoped Sam wasn't going to do anything stupid.

"Alright, Dean, I'm here." Like that wasn't obvious. "Now can someone tell me what's going on?"

_///_

After Sam clambered into the car, Dean forcefully demanded that they return to their motel room. There was a soccer mom in the minivan parked across from them who kept giving them disturbed looks, like two brothers and a classy drunk all meeting in a '67 Impala was suspicious or something. After they arrived and settled down at the motel, Sam still caressing the knife, Dean holding the beer bottle that had become his third arm, and Crowley gazing forlornly at the bottom of the now-empty shot glass, the demon reiterated everything that he had told Dean. Sam seemed much more interested than Dean had been, which wasn't necessarily unusual, but in the context, Dean figured he might have at least tried to contain his fascination.

"So who's benefiting from this anyway?" Dean griped. "I mean, who are the people who are escaping the deals?"

"Well I'm not the one making the deals," Crowley bit back. "Do you really think I have time to get to know each of them by name?" Dean raised his proverbial hackles, but Sam stepped in before he could retort.

"Of course not, Crowley," he said soothingly. "But it was a good question. What about the demons who did make the deals? Do they know?"

"There's only one who hasn't disappeared, and she's confirmed deceased. A few idiots thought they'd bring the information rather than the offender to me directly, but they ended up killing her instead."

"How convenient," Dean interjected cynically.

Crowley threw him a look before continuing, this time addressing only Sam. "There's only one lead- a name, or rather a place, the dead demon managed to spit out before she got her vocal cords torn out." Sam nodded eagerly, and that look came back into his eyes- the same one he had sported when he watched that vampire force feed Dean his blood. "Cerebral, Indiana."


	5. Gateway

\- get away -

Two days and two hundred bucks worth of crappy gas mileage later, Dean and Sam found themselves at the tall, iron gates of what could be colloquially described as the creepiest shithole on the face of the planet.

Now, Dean had been to a lot of crazy, creepy towns, but he had a feeling that this was one for the books. As the Impala rolled up to the entrance, the gates creaked with age, and it took Dean a moment to recognize that they were automated and they weren't, in fact, haunted. Still, they made a new, horrible sound with every agonizing inch they moved, and they took so long to open that by the time they ceased vibrating, Dean's head felt empty, which only made the silence that more disturbing.

"What, they fire the maintenance guy?" Dean griped as he pressed down on the gas, prepared to shoot straight past the rickety gates. Sam made an indeterminate noise of acknowledgement, but before they could advance any further, he perked up, looking at something outside the window.

"Wait, Dean, stop." He gestured wildly, pointing towards something at the foot of the gate, lurking in the tall grass. "Look at this."

It was a sign, clearly hand-made and somewhat old and weather beaten. It was no wonder Dean hadn't seen it before, since its worn tan blended in with the yellow Indiana grass around it. But now that he was looking, the words painted across it, in large, ominous letters, were clear as day.

"Welcome to Hell's Gate number one," Sam read aloud, raising his eyebrows. They exchanged a look. "Well. At least we know we're in the right place."

///

The actual town of Cerebral, Indiana was about twenty minutes down a creepy-ass road, along which ran six more rusty gates that made noises Merzbow would be jealous of. Each had a sign labeling them as Hell's Gates numbers two through seven. After the fourth gate, Sam pulled out his magic iPad and found some magic WiFi, and by the time they reached the first signs of actual human life, had done a Google search on the so-called Gates of Hell.

"So, get this," Sam started. "These aren't the only Hell's Gates around. Hell's Gates are actually kind of an urban legend phenomenon- there are literally hundreds of them across the United States. There are usually seven of them and the whole idea is that if you drive through them all starting at midnight, a 'gate' to hell will open up and you'll either get sucked in or let something out."

"Then why would anyone want to drive through them?" Dean growled.

Sam shrugged. "Not many people do. It's mostly drunk college students or conspiracy theorists," he said.

"So is it true?" Dean asked brusquely. "Can you actually drive through them and end up in hell's lobby?"

Sam chortled. "Uh, no. At least, it's not really something I'd waste my time on. Not in this town."

Puzzled by his wording, Dean frowned. "What do you mean, 'not in this town?" he demanded.

Sam sighed, and pulled up a page on his iPad, scrolling through it for a few seconds before responding. "There haven't been any violent deaths in this area for twenty years. No suspicious crimes, no mysterious survivors- maybe a little, um, inbreeding, but there's nothing remarkable about the town." Just as the words left Sam's mouth, they passed the seventh sign. "Well, except for those."

"Then why are we even here? I get the feeling Crowley's just sending us on some wild goose chase. It's not like he hasn't done it before," Dean reminded him.

"Yeah, but if he is right, Dean, then we could be facing something really serious. If someone is… 'mass releasing' demon deals, but the souls released haven't turned up… what are they doing with the deals?" Sam responded, putting on his 'voice of reason' tone.

Dean pulled a face. He hated it when Sam was right. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. It's suspicious," he grumbled. "Look, there's the town. Are you hungry? I'm hungry. Let's get some pie.


	6. Rescued

_\- secured -_

_There's adrenaline in the air so thick it could suffocate. Destruction surges through the veins of the warden, and there's the sick feeling of having complete and total control over another living being._

_Not living for much longer._

_Deals were made to be broken, but it won't be the warden who slacks. It never is. It's always the victims. And they always slack, slowly eroding until they become trapped in a deal that benefits only one participant. It's how they work, and it's how she works._

_Some things never change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are these abstracts too abstract???? whatever moving on


	7. Prognosis

\- signs: poor -

Surrounded on all four sides by a wide expanse of dead vegetation and open plains, Cerebral, Indiana was exposed and yet very, very isolated. Driving through the brick roads was like stepping back in time. Nothing seemed like it belonged; there were children in the streets, but they weren't playing. There were adults sitting on the benches, but they weren't talking. It was like some kind of creepy horror movie- the kind where everyone died.

The nearest motel was at the very end of the town, and as luck would have it, looked like it had once been a cemetery. There were suspicious looking patches of dirt in the weeds and the perimeter was surrounded by one of those creepy three foot tall wrought iron fences. Dean dropped Sam off at the motel with instructions to get a room, 'or a coffin, or whatever these people sleep in', and do some more research on these Hell's Gates. Dean himself took the Impala and drove to the nearest bar.

Usually he didn't really care where he got his alcohol, so long as he got it, but there was something about 'The Wingman' that might have been a little bit too much for one tense alcoholic hunter to handle. The woman behind the bar was gazing off into the distance, her eyes fixed on some unknown figure, and it took Dean a couple of snaps to get her attention. "Hey. Hey, bartender. Hello? Anyone home?"

When she finally spoke, she did so without the slightest change in expression. Her eyes remained fixed on the wall behind him in a sort of intent daze. "May I get you something to drink, sir?" Her voice was unnaturally soft, and if this goddamn bar hadn't been so unnaturally quiet, he wouldn't have heard her.

He frowned and followed her line of vision to the back of the bar. There hung a sign that read the exact same words she had just spoken- 'May I get you something to drink, sir?' He blinked.  _Go figure._

"… yeah, a whiskey," he said, shaking his head.

Immune to his sarcasm, she drifted away into the back room, nearly knocking over a crate of some Puerto Rican rum on the way. Dean scoffed under his breath. He really didn't need this right now. All he wanted was a nice, cold, unobstructed drink and maybe a hot chick to drink it with. The bartender had a pretty face, but Dean had a feeling she wouldn't exactly fit his criteria of mental awareness.

Eventually, she came back with his drink and swayed her way back to another customer, and Dean was finally left in relative peace and quiet to nurse his alcohol and think. Drinking was the only time he could do it without inhibition. It left him loose enough to be at least somewhat honest with himself, but still unwilling to share his feelings with the outside world. Coming to terms with emotions wasn't exactly a Winchester trait- God only knew how Sam did it. If God even cared. Which, according to Cas, He probably didn't.

His fingers tightened around the cold glass in his hand as his thoughts turned to the angel. It wasn't like Dean took Cas for granted. He knew Cas had shit to deal with up in heaven. He knew he couldn't be there to assist him through every little problem. It sure would have helped, all... those... times... but Dean wasn't going to complain. Because he was a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't complain. Especially not about losing something they didn't deserve in the first place.

Only Cas wasn't just an advantage, or even just an ally. Everyone knew it. Literally, everyone. It was actually getting on Dean's nerves how many people seemed to care about what went on in his pants. Not that anything went on. But really. People never seemed to be able to mind their damn business.

But disregarding what did or didn't go on in Dean's pants, even Dean himself knew that these observations had to come from somewhere. Somewhere, locked deep, deep, deep in his mind, in a box labeled 'shit you will never think about thinking about', he knew that he saw Cas as family, but not in the same sense as Sam or Bobby or even Jo. He wanted to think of him as a brother, like Sam, but this wasn't the same. It was almost, his subconscious imagined, like how his father had felt about his mother.

But that thought rarely even made it to his conscious mind, and when it did, it was quickly stamped out by the bitter sting of alcohol. Dean liked where he and Cas were, constantly balancing on the line between 'we're family' and 'let's get nasty'. If things could just stay the same, he would never have to confront any of this. Not Cas, not Sam, not Crowley, not God, not even himself. Especially not himself.

The truth was, he really didn't take Cas for granted. He didn't express it well, but he knew _exactly_  how much he needed Cas, and  _exactly_  how little he deserved him. Cas had always been the one thing that came with no strings attached, and while it had lasted, it was great. His own personal angel, for the man who had never believed in them. But he had always known things would change, because they always did. He just never figured it would be Cas who changed.

He remembered future Cas and devoted Cas and the Cas who had always kept an appointment no matter what was going on in heaven. " _Don't ever change."_ For someone who fought the supernatural every day, he had never been particularly superstitious, but he was starting to believe in jinxes. Maybe if Dean hadn't spoken- had kept his sentiments to himself- just maybe all this wouldn't have happened.

This stone cold general, this soldier of heaven, wasn't the Cas he knew. Team Free Will was made up of a winged dictator, a guy back form the dead, and a broken alcoholic unable to keep up with the rate of change around him. They were a sorry bunch, if you could even call them a 'bunch' anymore. Of course, they had never exactly been a well-oiled machine, but in the end they scraped together all their nuts and bolts and made it work.

But now, there weren't even any nuts and bolts left. Everything had all fallen into the works and was clogging up the system. Nothing was working but everything was still changing, grinding together and leaving permanent scars in the metal. Nothing- no demons, no Kings of Hell, no heavenly civil wars- could change that.

But if there was one thing Dean knew, it was that there were always things that could make it worse


	8. Gillian Anderson

\- no aliens, darling -

It was two o'clock in the morning when Dean got back to the hotel. Sam was missing, his laptop still open and the bed tidy; a normal occurrence these days. Dean didn't think much of it. Besides, he was drunk and horny and angry and not in the mood for thinking anyway.

He slammed the laptop shut before collapsing heavily on the couch and flipping on the television. The room was cold, so he tucked his chin closer to his collar to savor the heat his body gave off as his clothes settled comfortably around him. He wondered why Sam never turned up the heat anymore. It was something Dean used to complain about, in fact. Now he would be grateful for that extra heat.

Slowly, he forced himself out of his mind and thumbed the remote, flipping aimlessly through the different channels. He gave up after he came across the third re-run of the X-Files and left the TV on 'Bad Blood'. The episode had already been playing for fifteen minutes, but it was still one of the best on the show, and remembering that almost made Dean want to pay attention to it. Still, the TV was too far away for him to really focus on, so he didn't bother trying. A pixelated Mulder and Scully traipsed around on the screen, their lives filled with disguised conspiracies and drama. He blocked out their words, listening only to their voices. He had enough of that shit to deal with in the real world anyway.

Instead, he let his attention wander to Scully. Her red hair was smooth and vivid, outlining the shape of her neck and chest, and even if her image was low quality, she was still gorgeous. The mute button slid out of his fingers and thumped against the ground.

The fall must have hit the power button, because suddenly the screen blinked into darkness. Dean was unpleasantly surprised to find his face, slack and vaguely aroused, staring back at him.

Only his wasn't the only face there.

He nearly fell off of the couch. "Ca-  _Jesus_ , stop doing that!" he growled, jack-knifing up and then disguising it as an attempt to uncomfortably readjust his jacket. Behind him, Cas shifted his weight from foot to foot. "It's two in the morning," Dean griped uncomfortably. "Don't you have clocks up in heaven?"

A familiar frown settled across the angel's features. "Angels do not require clocks, Dean. We-" but Dean, who didn't really want to listen anyway, interrupted him by standing and stomping over to the kitchenette.

"Yeah, yeah. What do you want, Cas?" he demanded roughly, leaning on the counter that faced the rest of the room. He wanted to add that he was tired, and that he needed to sleep, but he held his tongue. Just as Dean didn't want to hear about how angels told time, he was sure Cas didn't want to hear about what was bothering Dean.

Cas' eyebrows knitted and his eyes narrowed, but the expression was minute and brief. Dean wondered if he had caught what Dean wanted to say, or if he understood it. But then old Cas was gone, new Cas' stoicism in his place. "I will be brief," he stated with an admissive nod. "I bring a warning. You must not pursue your current course of action."

Dean raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the television, remembering Scully. Surely Cas wasn't here to police his sex life- or lack thereof. "You're gonna have to be a  _little_  more specific than that," he smirked.

Unperturbed by Dean's sarcasm, Cas answered him shortly: "Crowley's problem."

So, he wasn't here about Scully's breasts. "How did you-"

Cas interrupted him. "I'm an angel, Dean. I thought you would have been used to this by now." His tone was clipped, as if he didn't have time for Dean's questions.

The insinuation made the hunter bristle. "Well, thanks for the friendly advice, but I think I can manage on my own," he finally said with a tight smile, mustering up as much sarcasm as he could.

Cas pursed his lips and took an impatient step toward Dean. "No, you do not understand." He paused, and Dean imagined that he was searching for the right lie, one that Dean might believe this time. "There are things you do not know."

That was the understatement of the century. Dean's face hardened. "Oh, yeah? I'm sure there are  _plenty_  of things that you're not telling me," he griped bitterly.

Cas' expression mirrored his, and he was silent. Dean waited for any sign that he was going to fight back, to deny what Dean was saying, but it was soon apparent that there were none. So he shook his head and abandoned the countertop, stomping back across the room with his beer and again taking a seat on the couch.

_"... why would a real vampire need fake fangs?"_

_"Fangs are very rarely mentioned in the literature..."_

Moments passed before Cas made a sound. He approached Dean carefully. "I am... sorry." Though the words were forced, they were genuine. Dean frowned harder at Scully's neckline. "I wish I was able to give you the answers you want, but I cannot. I can only tell you that you must leave here." His voice was filled with a deep-seated urgency, enough to make Dean abandon his frown and listen. "You must beware of the Rak-"

But before he could finish, there came a knock on the door. Cas stopped speaking very abruptly, and before Dean could even twist around in his seat, he was gone.

Dean stared at the empty space for a good five seconds before another knock jarred him out of his reverie. "Beware of the rock?" he muttered to himself. "Thanks, Cas. Real enlightening.


	9. Watching Over You

\- cheating your vow -

"Dean. Hey, Dean. Are you in there? I lost my key."

Sam. Of course it was Sam. Who else would be knocking on their motel room at two in the morning? Dean wanted to snarl something at the door, annoyed that the noise had scared Cas away, but he was too resigned.  _More fuckin' mysteries,_  he mused.

Sam drummed his fingers on the door, reminding Dean that he had yet to let him in. "Yeah, I'm comin'," Dean griped, standing up and walking to the door. When the last lock clicked out of place, he was greeted by the smiling face of his brother and a rush of cold air. "What are you so happy about?" Dean grumbled, although the spite in his voice was mostly manufactured.

"Just happy to see my brother…?" Sam smiled. He brushed past Dean and went straight for the bed, where he pulled off his shoes, jacket, and belt, dumping them on the ground next to him.

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed. "Where were you anyway?"

"Library." Obviously. "I dug up some research on demon deals."

"So what did you come up with?"

Sam pulled a contrite face. "Well, basically nothing."

"Basically?" After being the proverbial family man for a year, picking up on indecisive language was almost second nature.

Sam pulled a notebook out of his jacket and Dean quickly sat down on the bed next to him. "There  _is_  a local myth that sounded a little bit like what we're dealing with here," Sam started, flicking through the pages. "See, a while ago, there were some demons who didn't make deals. They stole souls instead. And there was this one demon named Arial who one night couldn't find any souls to steal, so when he returned to Hell, because he couldn't perform-"

"Oh, buddy," Dean interrupted, chuckling sympathetically.

"-he was cast back out as a mortal." Sam pulled a face. "Really, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. His brother shook his head slightly before continuing. "Anyway…  _he_  was 'reincarnated' here as a  _she_ ; apparently a very attractive she."

"Oh,  _buddy_ ," Dean chuckled again, this time smirking.

"Dean."

"Not sorry."

"… Sure. Anyway, um, after a few years of being a mortal, her memories of being a demon started to come back to her. And I guess she didn't want to go back to Hell, because she was aging and she knew she would die, so she tried to strike a deal with a crossroads demon. But none of the demons would come when she summoned them, so to get their attention, she started, well, taking their stuff. The souls." Dean frowned.

"I don't suppose it says  _how_  she did that?" Dean asked, already knowing the answer. Sam shook his head apologetically. "Figures. Go on."

"Well, as it turns out, that  _did_ get their attention. The next part is a little vague, and my Latin is a little rusty, so I'm not sure how accurate this is," Sam said dismissively. Dean grimaced, but Sam either didn't notice or didn't pay it any attention. "… but it looks like she brought the demons to Cerebral and felt sorry for bringing death upon the townspeople, so she played the hero and died so that they could live. Or something," he shrugged, and then tapped the page smartly to indicate that he was about to say something important. "But I looked into this 'Arial', and get this: Arial is also the name of a possible biblical angel."

That caught Dean's attention. He sat a little straighter.  _An angel_. Could it be a coincidence? Maybe this 'Arial'  _did_ have something to do with Crowley's problem- not to mention Cas' surprise appearance only a few minutes earlier. After all, Cas had sounded worried, and if anything made Cas worry, it was his fellow angels.

He wanted to pray to Cas, or to tell Sam that Cas had been here, but something made him keep his mouth shut. Telling Sam just felt wrong. He didn't want to dig too deep into why. Still, he had to ask Sam one thing. "Anything about a  _rock_  in this Arial story?"

Sam's eyebrows knitted. "A rock? No, nothing. Why?"

Dean shrugged. "Just a hunch."

_Castiel, invisible in the corner, watched as Dean retired to the shower and Sam popped open a beer in the kitchen. He wanted desperately to tell Dean that 'just a hunch' was about to become so much more, but he had made a deal, and he was going to honor it. Even if it meant endangering the lives of the souls he loved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look guise an original anagram that was painful to find 
> 
> anyway apparently the myth described here isn't an actual myth but i've heard of it somewhere before so if anyone knows the source just drop me an inbox in exchange for a cookie ok thank


	10. Elvis

\- lives -

Dean would love to be able to say graveyards weren't really his thing, but they really were. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't paid a visit to a graveyard during a hunt. They were the source of ninety percent of things creepy and crawly and undead, and as Dean hopped over the iron fence of the latest haunted conquest, he was suddenly very glad that when he died, he would be given a hunter's burial. He didn't like the idea of being stuffed under the ground for all eternity. Too familiar.

That morning, Sam had decided to check out the graveyards in town to follow last night's myth and see if anyone named Arial had ever died in the town. Seeing as there were two graveyards, they had split up, Dean taking the smaller one nearer to the motel while Sam took the larger and probably more recent one. At the moment, Dean wished he had taken the larger one. There, at least he would be closer to the bar.

Dean's graveyard was dark and gloomy, surrounded by looming pines on all sides that shrouded it from sight. Had it not been for the barely distinguishable stone-paved path that had led him there, he would never have found it; and had he not been looking for that path in the first place, he would never have known it was there. Despite its small size, it contained a good number of headstones, many of which seemed oddly new for a place that felt so old.

A shiver ran up his spine and he shook his head. The place was creepy, but it was nothing he hadn't seen before. He turned up his jacket collar for warmth and started kneeling in front of the graves to try and make out their names. A lot of them were impossible to read, half-destroyed by rain and wind and graffiti. He only skimmed over the newer ones, figuring he was looking for an obscure myth written in Latin and not the latest obituaries – that is, until he recognized one of the names on the graves: John Bonham.

He knew the drummer of Led Zeppelin was dead, but he was sure that he hadn't been buried in some broken down town one impromptu banjo duel away from Deliverance. Shrugging, he moved on. It was a common name, he told himself; he was bound to run into it sometime.

But as he continued through the graveyard, it was apparent that the coincidence didn't end there. There was Robert Plant (captioned  _Finally living up to his name);_ Malcolm ( _not-so_ ) Young ( _anymore_ ); Clint Eastwood ( _No one actually wore serapes in the Old West)_  and the kicker, Elvis Presley ( _Long Live the King_ ) _._

The graveyard was filled with the names of famous people, not always dead, and not always technically real. Dean counted at least two Bad, Bad Leroy Browns, a James T. Kirk, and someone with a name so ridiculous it had to be made up.  _I mean, come on,_  Dean thought to himself.  _Who would name their kid 'Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch'? Seriously?_

Shaking his head incredulously, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Elvis.  _'This has got to be our kind of weird,'_ he typed, sending it to Sam. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket, ready to head back to the Impala.

Three steps away from the gate, he was interrupted as, out of the corner of his eye, there was a movement. It was small, but enough to get Dean's attention. Instinctively, he slowed his pace, hand curling around the grip of his gun. If there was someone in the trees, he didn't want to be a stationary target, or an unarmed one.

A few seconds of silence passed, and Dean relaxed a little. Maybe just this once, it had been a trick of the light.

But he was never as lucky. There was a noise this time – a low rustle from the trees. Keeping his gun lowered by his hip, he followed the noise, tracking it until he was within inches from an old pine that the noises came from. But as he approached, the sounds stopped as abruptly as they had begun. Only the sounds of Dean's breathing and his ring clicking against his gun remained. He held deathly still.

" _Mrrraow!"_ Dean's hands flew up as he raised the gun, finger on the trigger and ready to shoot – a cat?

" _Fucking_ -!" Sighing sharply, Dean straightened up, a frown on his face. The cat shot off into the bushes like a rocket, tail held high behind it. "Goddamn cat," he growled under his breath as he angrily pocketed his weapon.

"Someone's got a dirty mouth."

This time, the jump from his hands to his gun was very necessary, because before him was the strange bartender from the previous night- only he didn't remember her eyes being black as coal


	11. Action Man

\- cannot aim -

"So, it's true what the other demons say. Crowley's got a Winchester doing his dirty work for him." The demon gave him a little smirk, fingering the hem of her apron. Her eyes flashed back to blue as she ran them up and down Dean's figure.

Dean pulled a face. He hated when the demons wanted to talk. He hated it even more when they wanted to flirt. "Yeah, because you should always trust what a demon says."

She giggled, and Dean could tell that normally, the giggle, coming from that mouth, was sweet. Now it made his blood curdle. "Such little faith you have, Winchester. And here I thought you and faith were kind of in an exclusive relationship." Dean bristled.

"Yeah, well, think again."

He wasn't going to waste time pandering her. He had had enough of this graveyard and enough of everything from heaven to hell making gay angel jokes. Without waiting for her to say another word, he dropped his gun and reached for Ruby's knife, tucked safely away in his jacket pocket.

The smirk on the demon's face morphed into a scowl, her teeth bared. Dean dropped into a fighting stance. "I'd offer you a choice, but all you black-eyed bastards pick the hard way."

He pulled the knife out, and she stood her ground, waiting for him to make the first move. He leapt at her, fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the blade, but she dodged his attack, turning on him and delivering a sharp blow to the back.

Dean whirled around, ready to counter attack, but was never given the chance. Suddenly the demon was right in front of him, her hand curling around the fabric of his shirt and thrusting him backward, sending him flying - straight into the iron rails of the fence.

There was a crack as Dean's skull and the metal collided. His vision flashed black, and all he felt was a slow, hot drip down the back of his neck. Then the pain set in. It dug deeper and deeper into his skull until his whole head was throbbing to the beat of his heart. His mouth fell open and he moaned.

"Not so tough now, huh?" It was getting harder and harder to open his eyes, but he could still make out the blurred silhouette of the bartender drawing nearer. He struggled to push himself up, knowing that if he didn't act now he was dead, but it was useless. The pain in his head was like a weight dragging him into the ground.

Suddenly she was so close that he could feel her, and Dean thought,  _this is it_. He braced himself for the blow, but it never came – not from the demon. He was unprepared for the thing that slammed into his shoulder from behind, sending him sideways onto the ground. There was a blinding flash of white and the unmistakable sound of a demon fleeing its host.

"Cas…?" he mumbled through the grass. There was no response. In the last few seconds that he was conscious, he managed to open his eyes, but all he saw was a pair of leather Ariats squatting in front of him and two gloved fingers pressing against his forehead.


	12. Something New

 

_theme: no wings_

_In the middle of the road across from the graveyard a woman appears in a flurry of smoke._

_Her clothes are singed and her face is dirty. She looks lost and tense and a little bit feral. Her eyes dart around wildly, taking in her surroundings. Even as she determines that she is in no apparent danger, she does not relax. She just brushes off her clothes and checks her pockets._

_She’s carrying a battered digital watch, a still-warm Zippo lighter, car keys belonging to a Ford, and a driver’s licence. The watch reads 2 January 1994, and the card shows her a face and a name: Rilen Brace. She cross checks what she sees in the image with her hair, black and braided, then her skin, a rich caramel._

_"Rilen Brace," she tries, and coughs because there's ash in her throat. "Rilen Brace," she says again, only it comes out more as a question, because apparently she’s Australian._

_Satisfied with her identity for the time being, she starts to analyse where she is. The street is deserted with the exception of a single car, an older model Chevy. The license plate is American, but she can't see the state name on it. It's in front of a graveyard surrounded by trees, and although she can't see past them, she hears movement within._

_Something black darts out between the iron gates, and the sudden movement sends her brain into overdrive. Mammalian. Order, carnivore, family, feline. Cat_. _It flies past her, too quick to catch._

_Then the voices start. Rilen must have good ears, because she can hear almost every word. "Someone's got a dirty mouth."_

_And something clicks inside of her because she knows that voice. Everything comes rushing back, like it always does but usually hours later. She knows a lot, but right now all she can remember is that she has to rescue_ her _. There's something wrong, and when the fighting starts, Rilen knows what she has to do. She unfurls her wings and flies._


	13. KO

\- OK -

When Dean woke up, he was in the Impala, his head throbbing. It was dark outside the car and the roads were lit up by flickering street lamps. His phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it. It was probably just Sam, or maybe Lisa wondering why he hadn't called recently. He remembered the graveyard and the bartender and then the flash of light, but nothing beyond that. He seemed safe for the time being, so he decided to answer his phone.

As it turned out, it wasn't actually ringing. Sam had sent him a few text messages, and the phone was continuously reminding him that they were there. The texts were all from earlier that day, informing him that Sam was going to go to the bar after he was finished researching and that if he wanted to meet him there, he could.

So Sam hadn't missed him, despite the fact that it was now well past eight o'clock and their day had started at around nine in the morning. He had been in that graveyard for hours, and Sam was out  _barhopping_.

He would have directed more energy to sulking about it if the more pressing matter wasn't how he had ended up in his car and who had saved him back in the graveyard. The flash of light could have had a hundred causes, but Dean knew there was really only one thing it could have been to make a demon haul ass like that: an angel.

"What is this place, freaking angel city?" he muttered angrily under his breath. He knew he should have been grateful, but he had put up a block against those kinds of emotions long ego. Besides, angels had  _agendas_. They didn't just save anyone. Even when Castiel had pulled his ass out of hell, there had been a plan for him. Fresh waves of irritation coursed through him.

He typed a quick, backhanded response to Sam- something about blood and loyalty and could have been dead- before opening the door and stepping out of the car. He figured he might as well see if the graveyard had any clues as to his mysterious rescue, and if the bartender was dead or gone.

It was dark, so he grabbed a flash light from the trunk and headed for the gates. It was as creepy and dead as it had been that morning, only now there was a mosquito epidemic coupled with the distinct stench of sulfur. He didn't recognize anything out of the ordinary immediately, except that the bartender was nowhere to be seen. He made a mental note to ask for her at the bar and tried to remember what her name tag had said. These things were usually so easy to remember, since name tags generally hung over one of Dean's favourite places, but whatever the name had been, it was escaping him.

Shrugging, he continued scanning the graveyard, looking for clues as to what had happened there. He found the place where he had been thrown against the railing and made his way back to Elvis' grave, and even backtracked to the place where the cat had jumped out of the bushes, but there was nothing - not even any footprints.

Eventually, he gave up and headed back into the car, grabbing his keys and turning them in the ignition. He pulled back onto the road, pulling up a mental map of the town and trying to figure out the shortest route to the bar. He didn't even notice the pothole until he drove straight through it, the car jerking violently.

Something hard and small flew off of the seat next to him, glinting silver, and bounced off of his chest. He stopped the car, curses on his tongue, and picked up the offending item- a weathered Zippo lighter. He frowned. He owned more than one Zippo, but not any this old, nor with engravings like these. Initials were displayed on one side, RAK, and a quote on the other: 'When you're going through hell, keep going.' It must have been quite old, because it didn't have any date markings on the bottom, and it was in fairly good condition. Dean didn't know much about the history of lighters, but he knew enough to know that whoever had lost this (in his car?) had lost something very valuable.

"R-A-K?" he spelled out. He did a quick run through of all the people he had ever met whose names started with R, but he didn't know any RAKs, or even RKs.

Of course, the more urgent matter was why RAK, whoever he or she (or it) was, had been in his car long enough to lose the Zippo. Especially someone as meticulous as RAK must have been to keep the lighter in the shape it was in for how old it was.

Frowning harder, he stuffed the lighter into his pocket for safekeeping and kept driving. He'd bring his findings back to the bar, where he'd see if he could find the bartender, and hopefully find Sam as well.


	14. If Lighters

\- light fires... -

Back at the bar, Sam was waiting a little too patiently for Dean to return from the second graveyard. His own rudimentary graveyard sweep had been fruitless, which had left him with little choice but to go back to the bar and chase tail. The town of Cerebral, Indiana was small and a little too genetically similar, but there were women in the bar, some of whom were very receptive to the handsome stranger with the suit and badge.

By now, he was on his seventh drink, but it seemed that not having a soul meant getting drunk did very little except mildly impair his motor skills. Still, it was enough for him to take the precaution of a tall barstool and a steady counter. "Keep 'em coming, Joan," he said to the bartender, whom he had been scamming out of drink money for the past three hours.

'Joan' happily poured him another drink, and Sam happily drank it as he scanned the bar for anything - or anyone - interesting. It was getting dark out, and Sam anticipated that more pleasing company would drop by soon enough.

His guess turned out to be correct. Just as he was about to finish his drink, the bells on the door jingled, and two women walked in. At first glance, Sam smiled because they were hot, but the longer he looked, the stranger they seemed.

The first girl was dark to the second girl's light- dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes next to light hair, light skin, and light eyes. Dark girl hung close to light girl, like light girl was something worth protecting, and as he looked her up and down, he raised an eyebrow appreciatively. He could see why. Vaguely, he wondered if they were involved.

Light girl said a few words to dark girl, and dark girl nodded. Light girl swayed away into the back room dreamily and dark girl headed for the bathroom. It was a little anticlimactic. Sam sighed and swiveled back to the counter.

"May I get you something to drink, sir?" Impossibly fast, light girl was behind the counter, aimlessly trying to tie her apron behind her back. Sam jumped, and then jumped again when he saw how close she was. Her intent gaze had shifted, and her hazy eyes were now fluttering dangerously close to his face. She looked high. Sam froze.

"... Thanks."

She blinked, as if unfamiliar with the term. Her head tilted and Sam was reminded of Castiel. "You look familiar."

Remembering the FBI scare from months earlier, Sam raised his eyebrows. "You must be mistaken," he said dismissively.

Light girl frowned ever so slightly. "I would remember your face," she said blankly. "You have an unusually phi-like geometric ratio." Her gaze was starting to become uncomfortably searching. "You were on a news channel a while ago." Sam tensed. "You were investigating some strange deaths in Iowa."

He bit back a sigh and instead offered her a relaxed smile. "Yeah, that's my partner and I." She poured his drink as he spoke. "Speaking of whom, you haven't seen another agent around, have you? Blonde hair, kind of butch? Goes by McVie?" he asked, like he suddenly remembered that he had a brother he hadn't seen all day.

But the bartender - El, according to her name tag - didn't seem to be listening. "May I get you something to drink, sir?" she asked someone a seat down from Sam. Curiously, he glanced over to see who it was. It was dark girl, back from the bathroom.

"Stop reading your damn sign, love, and make me a Hurricane," she sighed, and Sam was surprised to hear such a thick accent. He put on his best smile and greeted her with a nod.

She offered Sam a disinterested glance, and then did a double take. "Congratulations on your face."

It wasn't exactly what he had been expecting, but he took the compliment. "Thanks, um, I was born with it," he laughed, and dark girl smirked a little. Sam decided he had to find out her name since he couldn't keep calling her dark girl for much longer before it started sounding racist. "I'm Sam."

"Hmm, Sam," she hummed. "Do you smoke, Sam?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "No." Soul or not, smoking didn't seem like a good idea health-wise.

She fumbled around in one of her many pockets before tugging out a cigarette. "Got a light? Lost mine."

Sam did, in fact, have a lighter. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his zippo, striking the flint and offering it to her.

Once lit, she took a long drag from the cigarette, closing her eyes. "Thanks."

She seemed quiet and relaxed, so Sam took the opportunity to talk. "You don't sound like you belong here."

She didn't open her eyes. "Is that so." Her tone was dry, but not unwelcoming.

"Australia's an ocean away," he prompted.

She laughed a hearty laugh. "What can I say. Tourism's a booming business in ol' Cerebral. Internationally acclaimed, this place is."

Playing along, Sam smirked. "With tourists like yourself, I can see why."

She raised an eyebrow and the corners of her lips turned up. The bartender came back with her drink, and she took it with a silent nod. "Rilen," she said after taking a lazy sip.

"Sorry?"

"That's my name," she clarified. "Rilen. Rilen Kahn."


End file.
